Missing

The neighbors ask about you. Mazie's family, the Mutters, Jan and Karen.

I tell them about the end,


about how I waited too long because sometimes you had good days,

about the travel and how much you would have missed me at the kennel, if you remembered me at all,

about how the vet came to our house so you wouldn't be scared.

The neighbors look closely at me, then down at the street.

My eyes follow theirs down to the pavement, where your brown back would be if it weren't underground. Where your head would be, erect and quiet. And your tail, drooping sadly in your final weeks.

I can stand on the street forever, with no one pulling at a leash. When I finally walk down the street again, my thumb rubs the bittings of the house key.

The hostas on your gravesite are still in bloom, but most are beyond their prime. On the stalks, the white trumpets are changing to green cylindars of seed. Last week, the spicebush fell over in a thunderstorm and broke the leaves off the sickly one. It is too late in the season to grow them anew, although next year remains a possibility.